


The Cyrano Connection

by pringlesaremydivision



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, For Science!, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:45:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pringlesaremydivision/pseuds/pringlesaremydivision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>But</i> this. <i>Hearing Sherlock read those words, those words, in that infernal voice of his, was doing things to John that weren't being tempered by anything. Sherlock was reading relatively dispassionately, true, but that didn't negate the fact that he was sitting there, telling John he wanted to push him against a wall and kiss him, taste him, with those lush, perfect lips of his, and -</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sherlock's got a case involving dirty letters, and he needs John's help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, gigantic thanks to my wonderful beta, [jaggedrain](http://jaggedrain.tumblr.com/), without whom this story would not be what it is. Or have a title at all.

Sherlock had warned John before he moved in that he didn't talk for days on end. What he failed to mention was that the opposite was often true as well. Sherlock could talk for _hours_ , sometimes muttering, sometimes shouting, but always, _always_ talking.

John found himself not minding this either, not really, especially once he learned how to let the rich baritone wash over him, become white noise, a soothing sort of background music for whatever he was doing at the time. The only responses Sherlock seemed to require were affirmative murmurs and nods, and as it wasn't as though Sherlock was going to be dissuaded by anything John would say were he to protest, John was only too happy to provide those responses when pauses in Sherlock's monologuing suggested they were welcome.

John assumed Sherlock didn't notice – well, no, that wasn't quite true, because Sherlock noticed everything, all the time, _all the bloody time._ John assumed that Sherlock didn't particularly _care_ , then, that John didn't always pay the closest attention to the constant stream of words so long as he had someone capable of listening (John figured even tuned out, he was better than the skull).

All of this helped to explain why John had nodded and mm-hmm'd his way through god-only-knew how much suggestive language while he spread jam on his toast and settled into reading the paper that morning.

“'I'd push you against the wall, I think,'” said Sherlock, a piece of paper in one hand and an untouched cup of tea in the other, “'push you against the wall, but I wouldn't kiss you just yet. No, I'd just let my lips trail from the edge of your jaw to the delicious-looking hollow of your throat. The feel of my lips against your skin... you love my lips, don't you?'”

The pause suggested a response, so John mmm'd absently as he turned to the sports section.

Sherlock smirked. “'You'd be trembling already. I know you've been wanting this for so long, even though you haven't said anything. You don't need to say anything. I've seen the way you watch me when you think I'm not looking, your eyes gleaming, glittering, hungry, _starved_ for me. You think I don't see it, but of course I do. I see how you lick your lips when we're near enough to touch, like you're trying to taste me from the air around us. You want to taste me. All of me. Admit it.'”

“Oh, absolutely,” John murmured, as he finished one piece of toast and started in on another. Suddenly, mid-bite, he shook his head rather violently, looked up at Sherlock, and asked, “wait, _what_ now?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The _case_ , John.” He gestured to the paper in his hand. “Marcus Ferdinand. He came in yesterday, brought this, said he's been getting similar ones for months, no return address. Wants to know who's sending them, if it's some sort of misguided attempt at,” he snorted, “ _seduction_ , or something more sinister. It isn't the type of case we usually take on, I know, but Lestrade hasn't given me anything even remotely interesting in ages and I've been going mad.” He took a sip of tea and continued, disbelief evident in his voice, “surely your faculties are intact enough to remember this, John, it was only _yesterday_.”

John stared. “Sherlock, I was at the surgery all day yesterday. I worked a double because Sarah was sick, remember? I told you – in the morning, you were on the sofa – that I'd be gone all day, and I'd likely crash into bed the minute I got home, and there was leftover Thai in the fridge if you got hungry, and that you should eat it even if you didn't feel hungry, because I know you, and then I left, and that -” John gestured helplessly, “you don't remember _any_ of that?”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Irrelevant. Anyway, as I said in the beginning, if you'd actually been listening, which clearly you haven't, this whole thing, much as it pains me to admit it, is not exactly my area of expertise.”

John snorted. “Dirty letters? No, I should think not.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Despite what my brother has led you to believe, I am _not_ actually _at all_ virginal. I merely abstain from sexual relations because I find them an unnecessary distraction. I have, I assure you, done plenty of experiments to come to this conclusion.”

“Plenty?” asked John, cocking an eyebrow. It wasn't that Sherlock wasn't attractive and that he couldn't see anyone falling for him, because lord, that was not at all the problem. No, rather, John couldn't see Sherlock allowing _one_ person to even _touch_ him, at all, anywhere, much less _intimately_ ; the idea of Sherlock allowing more than one person to do so was almost unfathomable.

“Well.” said Sherlock, tipping his head. “Two. That was more than enough to confirm my hypothesis, which was, if you'll recall, that sex is dull and a waste of time.”

John chuckled. That was just like Sherlock, to be so convinced that anything, anything at all relating to his body, his _transport_ , was just something designed to slow down his brilliant mind.

“Sex can be dull, true,” John allowed, “but even if you didn't enjoy the lead-up, didn't you at least, you know...” he trailed off, uncertain of the proper way to ask his flatmate 'didn't it feel good when you came?' at half seven in the morning. He wondered briefly how they had gotten so far off topic anyway, and then realized he still didn't know what the topic actually _was._

“Why, Doctor Watson, are you asking me if I enjoyed my climax at the end of those encounters?” Sherlock quirked the corner of his lips up. “How very clinical of you. Or perhaps what you're really wanting to know is if, after those disappointing experiences, I gave up on satiating that particular... _need_... entirely?”

“I,” John started. Realized he had no idea what he was going to say, but it didn't matter, because Sherlock almost immediately started speaking again.

“So kind of you to worry about my health that way, _Doctor,_ ” murmured Sherlock, “but I assure you I'm more than capable of taking matters into my own hands, as it were, should the need arise.”

And if it were anyone else, anyone in the _world_ , talking to him like that, John would be sure he was on the receiving end of an intriguing, albeit slightly off-beat, seduction attempt, but this was Sherlock, who had just gotten done telling him that he had no interest in that sort of thing. Again. John sometimes thought that Sherlock must know how very, very appealing (lush bloody gorgeous _perfect_ ) he could be, and that he was deliberately messing with John's head when he pitched his voice low like he was doing now, or brushed up rather unnecessarily closely against John to whisper details about a case in his ear, breath ghosting against his skin, causing shivers even in the warmest weather London had to offer -

But no. Sherlock couldn't possibly know, this was the one thing that Sherlock evidently didn't know, the effect that he had on others, on _John_ , because although Sherlock could be petulant and rude and childish, he was very rarely outright cruel, and John couldn't imagine that Sherlock would tell him that he was in no way interested in sex and then continue to try to seduce him. It was too cruel to imagine, and thus, somehow, Sherlock must not know.

How that was possible, John had no idea, considering the man had only to look in a mirror or listen to himself talking (which John knew he enjoyed an inordinate amount anyway) to discover how entirely, infuriatingly, _awe-inspiringly_ beautiful he was. But evidently there were still a few things in this world about which even the great Sherlock Holmes remained ignorant.

Jesus, thought John, how had they gotten so off-track? _What was the track?_ He cleared his throat. “Yes. Okay. G-good to know. So how – what – er, what do you – you're asking me what now?”

Sherlock curled his lip. “I was hoping I could get your input as to the tone in which these letters were written, since you have had at least some experience in this regard.”

John blinked, folded the paper, and asked, “what, in writing dirty letters? Or receiving them?”

“Both.”

John did, although how Sherlock could deduce that was beyond him and okay, yes, also very par for the course. There was Cassie, his girlfriend his first year at Uni, two years his junior and three hundred miles away except for holidays when John would come back home. They had developed quite the correspondence to try to cope with the distance, letters John had kept under his bed in a nondescript box for years after they split, perfect wank fodder when just imagination wasn't enough.

John had always been turned on by words, by hearing – or reading, or writing – the things his partner wanted, the things he'd wanted to do to her; it made the whole thing seem even more heated, more deliciously filthy. It didn't even really matter whether the words were directed at him or not; he'd read quite a few stories on the internet (and before that, when he was younger, in the lad mags that were supposed to hold their appeal in pictures but which John honestly did read for the articles) that had gotten him far more turned on than, well, pretty much any porno he'd ever watched. It wasn't that he didn't like porn, of course he did – he was male, after all – but there was something so much more _intimate_ about reading the acts, the touches, the kisses and caresses, the descriptions that more easily allowed John to imagine that he was a part of it, or at least that he conceivably could be. Not being a six foot tall bloke with giant muscles and a ten-inch cock, he couldn't always insert himself into porn flicks quite so easily.

(Not that John had a small cock, by any means, thanks very much. Average length, but quite a bit more than average in girth, and the women he'd been with had never had a single reason to complain, and they didn't call him Three-Continents Watson for nothing, and hell, he'd lost track of the point of this entire conversation and was now only aware that his eyes were foggy and he was staring at Sherlock's mouth. Right. Hell.)

So, yes, John supposed he did have some experience in this area; more than Sherlock, obviously, at any rate. And if it was slightly weird to be listening to his – stunning, unavailable, _male_ – flatmate read what basically amounted to porn, especially when that was one of his larger turn-ons, well, it was for a case, and John was sure that were he to protest on the grounds that this wasn't what flatmates, what _blokes_ usually did with one another in their spare time, Sherlock would mock him mercilessly for being so prudish.

Usual was a useless concept when it came to Sherlock anyway.

John cleared his throat. “All right, then, let's hear this letter. I'll help as best as I can.”

The small smile that crept onto Sherlock's face was different, new, inscrutable, and it was gone as soon as it appeared. “Right.” He shook back his hair impatiently and snapped the paper taut. “Shall I start from the beginning? You know I loathe repeating myself, but in the interest of the case, I -”

“No, yeah, you'd better, sorry,” interrupted John, remembering foggily something about – walls? Lips? Hell.

“Very well,” said Sherlock, and began to read again. When he'd reached the part of the letter where John had interrupted him the first time, he paused at looked across the table, where John had let his eyes go all glassy again. “Are you still listening? Do try to keep up, John.”

John shook his head, clearing the glaze from his eyes, and nodded. “Yeah. I'm listening. Sorry. Go on.”

That was the problem, John thought wryly. He was listening only too well, and without anything at all to distract him. On a normal day – well, what passed for normal at 221B – John could usually tamp down the feelings of – arousal? Lust? _Need?_ \- he felt for his flatmate. Oh, the feelings were always _there_ , certainly, but for every glimpse of pale stomach between t-shirt and pyjama bottoms that John caught out of the corner of his eye when Sherlock stretched (which he did abnormally often, the man was like a cat; but then, John supposed, when you spent as much time as Sherlock did sitting stock-still, fingers steepled, or curled up into a ball on the sofa, you needed to stretch more often than most), there was an explosion in the kitchen, smoke pouring out into the living room, engulfing John where he sat reading in his chair.

For every heartbreakingly, breathtakingly beautiful sonata Sherlock played on his violin, eyes closed, body swaying ever-so-slightly with the music, the bow seeming more like an extension of himself, another limb, perhaps, there were just as many squeaks and shrieks and squeals, horrible discordant notes played well into the night, so that John had to shut his door and sleep with his pillow over his head, emerging the next morning feeling that he hadn't actually slept at all.

For every time that Sherlock swanned out of his bedroom, hair sleep-rumpled and wild, his long, lithe body wrapped in nothing but a sheet (and the man _had_ dressing gowns, several of them, all very soft and likely quite expensive, and John couldn't understand forgoing one in favor of a plain white sheet, even one with a ridiculously high thread count like Sherlock's), there were instances in which he found toes in the toaster, and okay, so that had only been the once, but _toes in the toaster_ , and surely that had to count for several strikes against the other man.

All of this meant that on a relatively ordinary day, Sherlock would inevitably do something to spark John's arousal, but he'd also just as inevitably do something to make John want to strangle him, so it evened out.

Most of the time.

And on the days when it didn't, it was nothing a quick wank in the shower couldn't fix.

Mostly.

But this. Hearing Sherlock read those words, _those words_ , in that infernal voice of his, was doing things to John that weren't being tempered by anything. Sherlock was reading relatively dispassionately, true, but that didn't negate the fact that he was sitting there, telling John he wanted to push him against a wall and kiss him, taste him, with those lush, perfect lips of his, and -

No. Sherlock wasn't saying those things. Sherlock was merely reading someone else's words, someone writing to Marcus Ferdinand, and he needed John's help, and so John was going to be a professional and he was going to focus and he was going to ignore the feeling growing low and tight in his belly. For science. Or, well, for Marcus. “There's more, I'm guessing?”

“In this letter? A bit. There are several more letters, this being the first, if you'll need more evidence after finishing this one,” Sherlock replied, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, well, let's see after the end of this one, yeah?” John said, mentally bracing himself. _Hell_.

Sherlock hmm'd noncommittally and continued. “'You want to taste me. All of me. Admit it. And god, I want you to. I want to feel your lips of my skin, on my neck, on my collarbones. I want you to unbutton my shirt slowly, so slowly – oh, your hands, your _fingers_ , how I've dreamt of them, so strong and clever – and kiss my chest as you go. Jesus, love, to feel your lips, your breath, against my skin like that... I don't think it would surprise you if I told you I'm hard now, just sitting here writing this, thinking about it. About you. Oh, _god_ , you.'” Sherlock set the paper down. “It isn't signed, just a line of x's and o's, terribly pedestrian.” He looked at John expectantly. “Well?”

John could feel the flush blooming across his face and took great pains to keep his voice steady when he answered. “I. Ah. There are more of these, you said?”

“Yes, several. Shall I get them?”

“No!” John replied, rather too loudly. “That is, no, I – I need to get ready for work, I'm nearly going to be late as it is.” He moved to stand up, thought better of it, and exhaled slowly through his nose. He couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth next. “Later, though, if you'd like. After I get home?”

Sherlock nodded curtly, then rose and left the kitchen, eyes blazing and mouth twitching in what John would swear was a smile, except that Sherlock generally didn't smile this early in the morning, even if he was on a case.

John slammed his head on the table. Fuck, he was going to need a cold shower before he could even _think_ about going to work. He was going to be very late indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

The problem was, John thought as he emerged shivering from the shower and groped for a towel, that he wasn't even _attracted_ to men. Not really. Sure, he had ogled a nice male arse now and again, and he couldn't deny that there had been a few lads back in his rugby days that he wouldn't have minded getting off with if the opportunity presented itself, which it never had. But in general, John loved women. Loved their curves, their innate softness, loved sinking into that plush wetness between their legs. Loved hearing their voices, higher-pitched than his even when they were rough and wrecked from desire, groaning out his name as he made them come on his mouth or his fingers or his cock.

He could have gone his whole life, he was sure, blindly heterosexual other than a basic once-over to a bloke every so often, and he would have been perfectly happy – or at any rate, he would have assumed he was happy because he didn't know otherwise.

And then came Sherlock.

That should be the title of his autobiography, were he ever to write one, not that he would, because really, what was the blog if not a sort of joint autobiography/biography anyway? But still. _And Then Came Sherlock_ , by Doctor John H. Watson. _A true story of an ordinary man and the self-proclaimed sociopath that made him question everything he ever knew._

Because really, that's what had happened, from the very moment he and Sherlock crossed paths at St. Bart's nearly a year ago. Everything that John assumed to be true – that he was washed-up and less than useless after coming home from Afghanistan, that he wasn't ever going to find something that made his pulse rush the way the sounds of the bullets and mortars on the battlefield did, that he was a hundred percent (or, okay, fine, ninety percent) heterosexual, that he minded intestines in the freezer (not that John had thought about that, really, at all before Sherlock, but he assumed that if he had he would have been very against it) – Sherlock, in the course of their – partnership? Friendship? - had turned completely on its head.

And John was grateful, endlessly, achingly grateful to him for it. Knowing Sherlock, being around him, being allowed to be a part of his world when he let so very few in, was like... well, it was like being home. Like warm fires and soft blankets and, yes, okay, explosions in the kitchen and severed heads in the fridge on occasion, but home all the same. It was an amazing feeling and John was terrified to think of what might have become of him had he never ran into Mike Stamford that day in the park.

John had come to terms with loving Sherlock far sooner than he came to terms with being, frankly, arse-over-teakettle gagging for him. John had never been one to give love freely, for all that he was friendly and easy-going, but once he allowed himself to love he did it fiercely and whole-heartedly and when he realized after one disastrous date a few months ago, one in which he had called the woman the wrong name not once but twice and she had strode out of the restaurant in disgust, that he had evidently allotted most of the space in his heart to Sherlock, he found he was, surprisingly, pretty okay with it. Sherlock was the type of person to take up most of the space wherever he placed himself, not so much physically but just with his presence, and he had set up residence in John's heart, and John decided, well, alright then.

He didn't take quite so easily to discovering that Sherlock had evidently also set up residence – a summer home, perhaps – in John's groin. John remembered the first time he noticed Sherlock, _really_ noticed him, and thought _oh, Christ_ and then, almost immediately after, _I'm done for_.

It had been just about a month and a half ago, and Sherlock and John had been on their way back from having successfully solved yet another case. (Well, Sherlock had solved it. John had done his best to keep Anderson from throwing the knife they'd found at the scene at Sherlock, reminding him that he didn't want to corrupt any evidence and also, politely, that if Anderson went anywhere near Sherlock John would have to kill him. Anderson retreated after that, glaring.)

They had been unable to find a cab anywhere, and although the skies were threatening rain, heavy grey clouds hanging low, both of them had been too keyed up from the thrill of success to mind the walk. However, two blocks out from Baker Street, the rain had burst forth, in droplets that quickly turned torrential, and within moments, John and Sherlock were both soaked to the skin.

“Fuck,” John swore, and started to run. 

He’d heard Sherlock's steps behind him, splashing in the puddles that had already formed, and he'd turned his head to the side and cocked a grin.

“What?” Sherlock had asked.

“Race you,” John had said, and with a burst of speed had doubled the distance between them before Sherlock growled and began to run faster as well.

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock had grumbled, between pants of breath, “this is the most ridiculous, childish thing -”

“I don't think you of all people are allowed to lecture me about ridiculous childish things,” John had retorted, and he huffed out a laugh when they rounded the corner onto Baker Street, “and besides, you're just sore because I'm going to beat you.”

Sherlock had let out what could only be described as a _growl_ and redoubled his speed, pulling up bedside John as they had passed the sandwich shop. “I have longer legs than you and furthermore, I -”

John had pushed past him and touched the door, breathing heavily but unable to keep from laughing. Bracing himself against the heavy wood, he had allowed himself a moment to catch his breath and then asked, “furthermore what, you arrogant git? Because clearly I've -” He turned, and the words had died on his lips.

Sherlock had stood there, in the rain, rivulets of water winding their way down his sodden curls to trace patterns onto his cheekbones, trailing down to that ridiculous cupid's-bow, dripping off his chin to collect in his suprasternal notch before finally making their way to the collar of his white button-down shirt, soaked nearly to transparency.

John had swallowed audibly. He’d always known that Sherlock was attractive, objectively – not just from his own observations but from the obvious glances that came from others, brief once-overs that were anything but subtle, although Sherlock never seemed to notice them – but this, seeing him like this, had been... _stunning._ Extraordinary.

_Unbelievably bloody hot_.

Somehow, Sherlock had managed to make a situation that would have caused anyone else – including, John had been sure, himself – to look like a drowned rat, into what could easily be a damned photo shoot. The lines of his suit, already tailored to fit his slim body, had hugged him even tighter in the downpour, putting every angle, every bit of lean muscle, on display. The soaked-through shirt, unbuttoned at the collar one button lower than usual – had it come undone while they ran? Was it like that when they left the Yard? John had no idea – had pressed against Sherlock's chest like a second skin, offering tantalizing hints of what was underneath but, frustratingly, revealing nothing.

And the water dripping down Sherlock's face, rolling off his jawbone... John had been suddenly overcome with the urge to press his lips against the sharp edges of Sherlock's face, to taste the rain, to taste _Sherlock_ , and Christ, this was all a bit sudden, wasn't it?

And yet, John had thought, as he watched Sherlock tip his head back, exposing that long, pale throat; as he had felt a pull of undeniable lust low in his belly, warming his chest against the chill in the air; as he had turned away and pushed the door, holding it open for Sherlock; and yet, although it felt sudden, it didn't feel wrong. It had felt, honestly, like an inevitability come to fruition.

Once they were inside, Sherlock had shook his head like a dog to dislodge some of the water from his curls, spraying John and everything else in the entryway, then stalked up the stairs and slammed the bathroom door.

John had chuckled and pulled his sodden jumper over his head. Nothing, then, had really changed. Nothing, but also everything.


	3. Chapter 3

John rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, letting out a sigh as he struggled to unlock the front door without dropping the takeaway he had picked up on the way home. It had been another exhausting day, with Sarah on the mend and not working at a hundred percent, and all John could think about was settling into his chair with his curry and a nice cold beer.

This brief fantasy of normalcy was shattered when he stepped foot in the flat and Sherlock snapped his head up sharply from the stack of papers he was...

_Oh, Christ_ , John thought, his stomach doing a turn that felt like equal parts despair and desire. The bloody letters. How could he have forgotten? Sherlock's voice had buzzed incessantly in his head as he had made his way to work that morning, and even through his first few patients, but sometime between lunch and the rush of patients after left John so focused that he had completely pushed the entire breakfast incident aside.

Clearly this had been a mistake.

“John!” exclaimed Sherlock, unfolding his long legs and rising up from the table. “ _Finally_.” He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to begin reading from the topmost paper, but John held up a hand and cut him off.

“No.”

“But you said -” replied Sherlock with a huff.

“I know what I said,” John answered wearily, turning to find some plates and silverware that, hopefully, had managed to thus far keep clear of Sherlock's experiments, “and I'm not backing out, I want to help. But first I want to put my feet up, and I want to eat dinner, and I want to _relax_.” He punctuated the last word with a slam of the cupboard door. “Damn it, Sherlock, where have all the dishes gone?”

He turned back around in time to see Sherlock shift into an expression that, were it anyone else, would have conveyed deep and sincere regret but which John knew was simply a calculated attempt to keep John from getting too angry at the fate of the plates.

“I needed them,” Sherlock said simply, eyes large, and although John knew it was all a fucking act, he still couldn't help being awed once again by the beauty of them. Grey and blue and green all at once, they were so expressive when Sherlock allowed them to be – or needed them to be, as it were – and it wasn't fair, it really wasn't, to turn them on John like that.

Stupid buggering infuriating stunning _git_.

“You needed all of them? Every plate? Every single plate in the flat?” John ran a hand over his eyes again and tried to remember the last time he had eaten a straightforward, uncomplicated meal at home. He found he had no idea. “For what possible – what _earthly_ reason would you need every plate we own?”

Sherlock brightened, replacing the look of false regret with one of genuine enthusiasm, and damn it all, how was John supposed to maintain any sort of detachment at all if he found it adorable when Sherlock deliberately made things difficult? _Gleefully_ made things difficult?

“For science, John!” Sherlock exclaimed, and animatedly launched into a description of his day, which had evidently been spent dropping all of their plates – _all of their plates_ – from various heights all over the flat so as to gather insight into the shatter patterns of various different plate-type-materials. “So you see, the brother-in-law couldn't have done it. Far too tall. If he'd smashed the plate it would have had a completely different pattern than the one we found at the scene.”

John didn't even know what case he was talking about. He vaguely remembered something about a body in a kitchen last week, ceramic bits strewn about everywhere around her, but he'd thought they'd solved it and filed it away. Apparently not.

He wanted to stay angry about the plates, he really did, but seeing Sherlock so engaged and animated and _happy_ – it was worth the loss. God help him, he was really far gone.

“But,” finished Sherlock, breaking John out of his thoughts, “I _did_ clean up after myself, and I didn't touch any of the bowls in the cupboard above the sink, so I'm really not sure what you've got yourself in such a snit about.” He had taken a turn for petulance, arms crossed and plump bottom lip stuck out for effect.

John couldn't help but chuckle. The man was absolutely ridiculous. Still, he thought as he looked around the flat which, indeed, bore no signs of dish shrapnel, Sherlock cleaning up instead of leaving John to do it was unusually generous – sweet, really – so he simply shook his head and reached for the cabinet with the bowls. “Thank you.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock said, sounding marginally less put-upon. “Next I suppose you'll be wanting me to eat, as though I don't do enough for you already.”

“I did get your favorite curry and extra of that garlic naan you like,” said John, grabbing a beer and making his way to the living room, “but I'm not going to force you to eat. You're a grown man, even if you don't act like one most of the time.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Of course,” John continued, “I'm not going to feel any sympathy for you when you pass out at the next crime scene, either.”

Sherlock groaned, and although John couldn't see him, he knew Sherlock was gripping his hair in frustration. “That was _one time_ , John, one time, must you keep bringing it up? Haven't you deleted it by now? Surely given your limited amount of space, comparatively, you'd be eager to get rid of anything that isn't essential information.”

“Everything about you is essential information,” John replied, then froze. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Behind him, Sherlock had gone silent.

_Shit_.

There was a loaded pause and then the sound of the plastic bag ruffling. After a moment, Sherlock came into view, holding a bowl in one hand and two beers in the other. He handed one to John, who accepted it wordlessly, and sat down on the sofa.

After a pin-drop quiet moment, Sherlock grabbed the remote and flicked on the television, nose wrinkling in distaste as the opening credits of Doctor Who flashed across the screen. He did not, however, change the channel.

John looked at him, aghast. Sherlock _hated_ Doctor Who, hated the timey-wimeyness of it, the inexactitudes and liberties it took with space and time. At least, that's what he said. John harbored a secret belief that Sherlock was just jealous he was not, in fact, a Time Lord. John had taken to recording it and watching it when Sherlock was out, just so that he could make it through the program without hearing sniffs and snorts of derision – and more often than not violent outbursts on why this bit or that bit didn't make sense, and for heaven's sake, this Steven Moffat man must be a fool, and on and on and _on._

But.

But there Sherlock sat, eyes on the screen, occasionally moving bites of food from the bowl to his mouth, not saying a word. Not even making a _noise_. Just watching. Just letting _John_ watch.

John felt, all things considered, today ranked fairly high on his list of Strangest Days Ever. He shook his head to clear it, opened his beer, and tried to keep his attention on the telly instead of on Sherlock.

He failed, mostly.


	4. Chapter 4

Three and a half beers later, John decided it was now or never. “All right, let's hear this next letter,” he said, and tried very hard to ignore the knot that had already begun to form in his stomach from his earlier declaration. 

“Right.” Sherlock rose, grabbing his bowl and empty beer bottle and extending his arm towards John. John blinked. “Your bowl, John,” Sherlock said, annoyance heavy in his voice.

“Um.” John handed him his empty bowl and bottles and watched as Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, depositing the bottles in the bin and the bowls in the sink. What the hell was going on? Sherlock didn't do these things. Didn't do _any_ of these things. Cleaning up after himself with the plate experiment had been one thing, strange on its own but dismissible, but then the telly and now _this_? “Are you feeling okay?” he called into the kitchen.

“Of course, why wouldn't I be?” Sherlock returned, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He tilted his head and looked at John questioningly.

“Well, the tidying up, for one. And you brought me a beer. And, well. The – the telly.”

“I find that offensive. I can't simply act solicitously towards my -” Sherlock paused, clearly uncertain. “Best friend?” he finished, and John couldn't help but flush with pleasure at the sound of that. Sherlock Holmes, the man without friends, and John had managed to break through that. He felt, absurdly, proud.

“In my experience, no.” John quirked a smile that grew into a grin when Sherlock rolled his eyes. He felt a little hazy – he didn't usually let himself drink this much, but with the couple of days he'd had and the task ahead, he'd earned it – and happy and comfortable. Well, relatively comfortable. Everything felt a little loose, and he could feel the tension slipping away from his shoulders as he settled down further into his chair, gripping the neck of his bottle loosely. “But we'll let that go for now.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock, shooting him a glare. Glancing at the topmost paper, he said, “This one was sent a few days after the first one. Same stationery, same pen, I'm willing to bet – I haven't done an analysis of course but it's a virtual certainty – same lack of return address.”

Sherlock cleared his throat, and John briefly considered the idea that Sherlock was nervous about this, but dismissed it almost immediately because for one thing, Sherlock was rarely if ever nervous about anything, and for another, even if he were, it certainly wouldn't be about this. Reading these dirty, intimate letters, speaking the erotic words aloud – to Sherlock, it was surely nothing more than work, nothing more than clues.

John, on the other hand, had plenty to be nervous about, but swallowed it down with another gulp of beer. “Go on, then.”

Sherlock nodded. “'I haven't been able to stop thinking about you,'” he began, and John felt a shiver go up his spine. Fuck, this was going to be torture if this is how he was reacting already. “'You don't know what you do to me. You couldn't possibly. Everything about you, _everything,_ it turns me on more than you could imagine. The smell of your hair. The strong line of your jaw – god, how I want to mark that jaw, bite at it, make it mine, show everyone that you belong to _me_.'” Sherlock stopped, cleared his throat again. John looked everywhere he could – up at the ceiling, down at his own hands, at the skull on the mantle – to avoid looking at him. “'I want to take you to bed and lay you bare, to reveal every inch of the skin you try so hard to cover up. You're so beautiful; I wish you'd show yourself off. God, how I wish you'd show yourself to me. I'd take my time with you, run my hands over every bit of you, kiss you everywhere until you can't even think straight. I want to worship you, if only you'd let me.'”

John tried valiantly to ignore his stiffening cock.

“'I want to _own_ you. I want to make you forget everyone you've ever been with, every soft, wet cunt you've pushed into, every hard prick you've ever taken into that luscious mouth; when I'm done with you I want you to remember no one's name but mine. When I get my lips around that gorgeous cock of yours you will never be able to think of anyone else, _be_ with anyone else, without being disappointed. I will make you feel things you have never felt before and you'll take it all and love, you will _beg me_ for more when I'm through.'”

John became distantly aware of a high keening sound; he felt his face grow hot when he realized it was coming from _him_. “Gnuh -” he started, voice strangled. He tried again. “Sherlock. Jesus. Isn't this -” he didn't even know what to ask. There was alcohol coursing through his veins and his cock was pressing painfully against the zip of his jeans and he was so turned on he was practically vibrating. “This doesn't affect you at all, does it?” He felt hurt, almost; hurt that Sherlock could do this to him without even _trying_ and that there was nothing John could ever hope to do to cause those same reactions in him. Hurt from the sheer _wanting_ of it all. It wasn't just his throbbing cock, or the tightness in his balls; every bit of him, from his ears to his fingertips to his bloody fucking toes tingled and _ached_ for Sherlock. And Sherlock sat there, composed and still, like a statue, feeling – what? Nothing? Boredom, for such a tedious case? He felt foolish and ashamed and had half a mind to just give up for the night, go up to his room, and have the world's most depressing wank, when -

“John.” Sherlock's voice was low, nearly a growl, and John forced himself to look the other man in the face, and – Christ, oh fucking hell.

Sherlock looked _wrecked_ ; his eyes were nearly black, pupils blown wide, leaving only a ring of iris around them. The curls against his forehead were damp and darkened with sweat, and at some point he had loosened his collar and unbuttoned enough buttons so the shirt fell open, revealing nearly the full width of his collarbones. The hand that wasn't grasping the letter was clenched in a fist on Sherlock's thigh, knuckles white from pressure, long lovely fingers curled tightly in on themselves. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and then, as John watched helplessly, bit down hard, worrying at the plump flesh, turning it a deep, dark red. His eyelids fluttered closed, lashes dark smudges on his cheeks. He looked positively debauched. He looked like every fantasy John had ever had, come to life. He looked - 

John sprang up and stumbled up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him. He was absolutely not equipped to deal with this now. Or possibly ever.


	5. Chapter 5

Flushed and not a little dizzy, John wasted no time at all unzipping his jeans and pulling himself out once he collapsed on his bed. He hissed at the skin-to-skin contact – fucking _finally_ – and began a brutal tempo, smoothing the pre-come beading at the tip down to his shaft, tugging furiously. This was ridiculous. This was infuriating. This was so... fucking necessary.

John was so on edge that it took only a few minutes before he felt the tension in his balls snap and he was biting his hand to keep from shouting, cock spurting messily, striping his exposed belly and his jumper. After, he could do nothing but lay back and breathe heavily, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The orgasm had relieved some of the tension from his body but none from his mind, and as he lay there, come sticky on one hand, bite marks on the other, his mind whirled with desperate questions.

Why had Sherlock reacted like that? Was it a simple, physiological response to the words he was reading – Sherlock not being as immune to the needs of his transport as he'd thought? Then why had he been so calm, so collected, the previous time? Was it because John hadn't been able to hide his own reactions nearly as well, loosened by alcohol and exhaustion, free from distractions? Was it seeing the effect that he had on another person that had turned Sherlock on... or had it been the fact that that person had been _John_?

Sleep was an impossibility, though John could barely keep his eyes open, so he lay in bed and waited, hoping Sherlock would at least go in his room even if he didn't do John the courtesy of actually going to sleep.

After some time – John didn't know how much, couldn't seem to take his gaze off the ceiling – he heard, faintly, through the floor, the click of Sherlock's door and then a moment later, the soft sound of a bow being drawn across strings. Expecting a cacophony, John's breath caught in his throat when instead Sherlock began to play something slow, melodious, melancholy – haunting.

It was exquisite. John knew, suddenly, that he had to see the letters with his own eyes or he'd go mad from – everything. He had no idea what reading them himself would do, other than avoid another scenario like the one he had just run from – and that proposition left John both awash with relief and oddly bereft.

Because, as agonizing as it had been, listening to Sherlock's rich, rumbling voice as he recited everything John had ever wanted without the words actually being for John; as painful as it had been, listening to the potential for passion and sensuality that he hadn't known Sherlock was capable of, knowing that the chances of that potential becoming reality at all were slim and the possibility of it being realized with _John_ was almost infinitesimal; as much as it _hurt_ John to be _so close_ to Sherlock without any hope of reciprocity – still, it was very nearly worth it just to see Sherlock undone. To see him so ragged and desperate - his Sherlock, who presented such a calculated, composed face to the rest of the world – the sight of him so unraveled had almost been worth the agony. John would never forget it, at any rate, and if it made his chest ache for wanting, well, he'd made that bed when he fell for Sherlock long ago, and that ache could serve as a blanket to suffocate him as he lay in it.

Wiping his hand and belly off with his soiled jumper, he pulled it and his jeans off and changed into a pair of pyjama bottoms. Quietly padding toward the door, he took the steps down gingerly, avoiding the squeaky one third from the bottom. The melancholy strains of the violin still coming from Sherlock's room would have hidden it, probably, but better not to leave anything to chance.

Just enough moonlight filtered in the windows for John to be able to navigate without having to turn on the lamps. He shivered a little, in the darkness, as he reached Sherlock's desk, towering with books and papers and – oh lord, please let that be tea in that mug, tea and not some long-forgotten experiment grown liquidy and dark.

Studiously ignoring the mug, John shifted his attention to the pile of folded-up letters sticking out of an anatomy textbook balanced precariously near the edge of the desk. This was it, then, and John squashed down the thought that he was doing something terribly wrong, because – hell, he was supposed to hear these anyway, right? What did it matter whether it was in Sherlock's (torturous, exquisite) voice or his own, inside his head? The information was the same either way.

Still, John couldn't help noticing his hand trembling, just slightly, as he slipped the pile of papers out of the textbook and smoothed them out onto the desk.

He recognized the first two and pushed them aside – he'd reread them later, maybe, if he got a chance, if he didn't spontaneously combust, which felt more and more likely with every passing minute – and unfolded the third with unsteady fingers.

_It isn't just what I want to do to you_ , John read. _It's everything I want you to do to me. I want you to mark me, too, show the whole world I'm yours. I want you to have your way with me – push me onto the bed, take my wrists in your hands, pin me down. Show me that strength I know you keep hidden. You have no idea what it does to me, knowing the restraint you use, wondering if I could break you, break it, unleash all that passion I know you have buried inside you. I see it in your eyes, even though you don't think I do. I'd give anything to be the one to let it out._

John let out a slow breath. This wasn't even – there was no cursing, no filthy language, yet it was undeniably sensual, _loving_ even, and he could feel himself growing hard again.

From the tone of the letters he'd read so far, he didn't think Marcus had anything to worry about – these truly seemed like love letters, albeit dirty ones, rather than something threatening. Still, John continued reading.

_I have never felt this way about anyone before_ , the letter went on. _You are a wonder, and the craving I feel for you is one I have only felt before for substances far more illicit than you. Even the memory of that pales in comparison to just_ thinking _about what it would be like to feel you, hard and strong and naked against me, rubbing, rutting like schoolboys. The thought of all your glorious, gorgeous, golden skin against mine, of gripping you tight, pressing us together... the mere thought of your lovely mouth on me, that clever tongue teasing and tasting my cock and then,_ oh _, dipping lower, lower, to feel your lips against my backside, licking and swirling and preparing me for what's to come, your fingers, your prick, oh, my love, to have you inside me – god, it's better than nicotine, sweeter than cocaine. I fear if it should ever come to pass that it might actually kill me, but I would happily die a thousand deaths just to have you in my arms, in my bed, even if it was only once._

John realized he was gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles were white, but for a moment he couldn't move, not even to flex them. _Better than nicotine, sweeter than cocaine_... but surely not. Surely this Marcus's admirer, whomever he was, just had similar interests to the ones Sherlock had pursued in the past, before 221B, before John. Surely that must be the case. Anything else was... improbable, verging on impossible.

There was one letter left, and it was shorter than the rest. John wavered, torn between wanting to finish the lot and not wanting it to end.

_I need you. Next to me, in my life, in my bed, in the mornings when you nag me to eat, in the evenings when you nag me to sleep. I need you inside me, around me, enveloping me, consuming me. I need your lips, your sweet lips, your smile and your laugh; I need your hands and your fingers and your chest and your thighs and the backs of your knees and the bottoms of your feet and every other part of you, if only -_

“You'll give them to me,” Sherlock's voice sounded from behind John, and he realized belatedly that there hadn't been any music coming from Sherlock's room for some time now, and damn it, he was an army man, he wasn't supposed to ever let his guard down like that, and then Sherlock's arms snaked around his, bare chest pressed against John's back, and oh hell, oh Christ, oh _fuck_.


	6. Chapter 6

“Sherlock,” he whispered, trying to turn, but Sherlock's arms held him in position, tight but not uncomfortable. John bent his head and gripped the desk again.

“Please, John,” Sherlock murmured, his breath ghosting over John's ear, making him shiver even in the warmth of the embrace, “please, let me finish reading this.”

As if he could deny Sherlock anything, ever, much less when he was half-naked and so warm against him. He would give this man the moon if he asked, and as many of the stars as he could grab while he was at it.

John nodded, and shut his eyes.

“I need your touch and your taste and the feel of you,” Sherlock continued, voice quiet but so low it reverberated until John was sure his chest, his whole body, was vibrating in tempo, “but I also need your mind and your heart and every bit, every tangible and intangible molecule, every atom and ion that makes up who you are. I was a shell until I met you, a hollowed-out husk and I didn't even know the half of it until I realized what the world, what _life_ could be like, with you by my side.”

“And in return,” and here Sherlock sucked in a breath, “I will give you all of me, my body and my mind, my heart and every part of me if – if only you'll take them.”

He let out a great, shuddering sigh and dropped his head onto John's good shoulder, and when John felt he could bear it without his knees buckling, he opened his eyes and glanced at the letter on the desk, confirming what he had suspected when Sherlock began reading.

“Sherlock,” he said again, and he could feel his pulse in his throat. “Sherlock.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock answered, muffled in the crook of John's neck. John could feel his brow, damp with sweat and feverishly warm against his skin.

“Sherlock, that last bit – that's not written there.” He checked again, just to make sure, but no – the letter stopped after _intangible molecule_ , the rest of the paper blank, glaringly white in the moonlight.

Sherlock nodded, faint scratch of stubble against John's already over-sensitized skin making it feel like his shoulder was on fire. He swallowed, once, and tried again to turn, but Sherlock kept him locked in place, strong arms and chest holding him tight against the desk, and oh god, Sherlock was hard, cock pressed against the small of John's back, and John was almost sure Sherlock had no idea he was thrusting ever so gently against him, just tiny movements that only served to make John even harder, a feat he had no idea was possible, because he was already hard enough that it actually hurt.

“Why? Why the – there wasn't any case, obviously. Why the fake letters? Why not just -” John broke off as Sherlock stilled behind him.

“I needed to be sure. To tell you – how I felt – without you knowing the words were mine.” Sherlock's voice was muffled still, but John heard every word perfectly. “I needed to collect data, gauge your reactions, make sure I wasn't wrong, that I wasn't – imagining things.”

He sounded so hesitant, and it nearly broke John. Nothing should ever make him sound so unsure, his Sherlock who was always confident about every feeling, every hunch and intuition, every godforsaken word that came out of that often-infuriating mouth. Least of all John himself.

“And so the letters – if I didn't respond the way you'd hoped – they could have just stayed part of this imaginary case?” John asked.

“Precisely. I needed a way to – extricate myself from the situation, so that we could continue to live together just as we are now, without any sort of humiliation on my part, if my – if somehow I had gotten my deductions wrong.” Sherlock sighed and tightened his arms around John. “I couldn't risk – couldn't bear to lose you if -”

John flexed his fingers out of their white-knuckled grip on the desk and moved one hand over Sherlock's, enjoying the sight of those long, pale, elegant fingers under his shorter, thicker ones. “And now?” he asked, and after a moment, Sherlock turned his hand face up so that they were palm-to-palm, fingers interlocking, a beautiful interplay of light and dark, pale and golden. His chest felt tight enough to burst, and he was sure Sherlock's strong body behind him was the only thing keeping him upright. “Have you gathered sufficient data to – er, prove your hypothesis?”

Behind him, Sherlock raised his head, leaned forward and pressed his cheek against John's, and John could feel his lips move when he replied. “I believe so. I just have one final experiment to perform. May I?”

“Gladly,” John breathed, and tipped his head back in expectation. He was rewarded with a press of lips, firm but chaste, against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and the low moan that escaped seemed to be all the encouragement Sherlock needed. His mouth returned, wetter and more open, and he trailed kisses up John's neck to the spot behind his ear, pausing to suck lightly at his earlobe, before continuing his open-mouthed exploration of John's jaw. “Sherlock, Jesus, please,” John pleaded, unsure what he was asking for, knowing only that he wanted _more_.

“Anything,” Sherlock growled, and he untangled his fingers from John's to run both hands down John's chest, from his collarbones to his hips, fingertips trailing along the edge of his pyjama bottoms. “Everything.”

John groaned. “Just – was. Um. Everything in the letters – was it true?”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, toying at the tie on John's bottoms. He untied it, slowly, and slid the tips of his fingers underneath the waistband, and the press of them against John's hips very nearly made him weep. God, he had wanted this, wanted it for – so long it felt like forever, and yet now that it was happening it felt more like a dream than ever, like if he blinked too many times he'd wake up and it would be over and he'd be back in his own bed, fisting the sheets, Sherlock's name dying on his lips. But no, Sherlock was tall and firm and _hard_ and very, very real behind him, and John just needed – god, just _needed_ so very much.

“Sherlock?” he whispered, and Sherlock stilled his movements.

“Every word. The things you – I can't – I have never, _never_ felt this way about someone, anyone, never allowed myself to, but you, you have gotten _under my skin_ ,” and Sherlock's voice went hoarse and raw, and he resumed his exploration of John's hips, pressing and gripping and _claiming_ , and Jesus, _Jesus_ , “and now I am so distracted by the very thought of you that I am bloody well _consumed_ with it, and I couldn't – I just -” and John marveled at this, at Sherlock, who always had, if not the _right_ words for a given situation, at least _some_ words for a situation – at Sherlock Holmes, rendered effectively speechless.

John felt humbled. John felt honoured. John felt so unbearably, achingly aware of all the parts of him that could have been touching Sherlock but weren't. He tried once more to turn, and this time, Sherlock allowed it. Slowly, shifting in the cage that was Sherlock's arms and chest, John came face to face with the other man, features carved and skin pale, like a marble statue in the moonlight. Slowly, John raised his hand and cupped Sherlock's jaw, feeling the light, rough stubble beneath his palm. Slowly, so slowly, John raised himself up on his toes, gently pulling Sherlock's head down as he rose.

Slowly, not even daring to breathe, John pressed his lips against Sherlock's, and then there was no thought of _slow_ because Sherlock was kissing him back, hard and desperate, and he had one hand fisted in Sherlock's hair (god, even softer than he'd imagined) and the other gripping the jut of his hip, razor-sharp, and Sherlock, Jesus, Sherlock had both his hands on John's arse, and his hands felt so hot, so _searingly_ hot, and then Sherlock _lifted_ and Christ but he was strong, and then, fuck, John was sitting on the desk, legs spread, Sherlock standing between them, and fucking fucking _Christ almighty_.

Sherlock placed his hands on John's thighs, rubbing frantic patterns against the fabric there, making John's skin itch for contact. John drew his tongue over the seam of Sherlock's lips, opening his plush mouth wide, swallowing Sherlock's moan in the kiss. “Yeah,” he muttered, and brought both hands behind Sherlock's neck, threading fingers in his curls. “Yeah, Jesus, Sherlock, your _mouth_ , bloody hell...”

After a moment's more frantic kissing, after John's lips had begun to buzz, after his legs had somehow found their way up, up, and around Sherlock's waist, he pushed back, breathing hard, and had to fight himself not to push right back in. “Tell me,” he said, low and dark. “Tell me, Sherlock. What you want.”

Sherlock bit his lower lip, breath coming ragged behind his teeth. “I have. That was the whole point – I already -”

John shook his head. “No. I mean, tell me, right now, what you want me to do to you. _Right now_.” He pulled Sherlock closer, flush against him, chest to chest, and chuckled against his throat as Sherlock _whined_. Pressed a kiss against his Adam's apple, another on the curve of his jaw, then brought his mouth to Sherlock's ear. “Tell me, because I know you love to talk and _Christ_ I love to hear you, and you know it, you insufferable prat. Tell me what you want me to do to you and I will do every. single. thing.” John punctuated each of these last words with a nip to Sherlock's earlobe, sharp pressure just on this side of pain, and was rewarded by a full-body shudder.

“My – my neck. Kiss my neck again, John, _please_ ,” and the words were barely out of Sherlock's mouth before John's lips were pressed against his throat, sucking wet, messy kisses against his pale skin. Sherlock groaned, long and low, and the vibrations traveled straight from John's lips to his cock and then it was John's turn to shudder. “God, you – please – John – _John_ – your hands, I need your hands,” and when John let his hands hover, teasing, not touching anything, Sherlock growled and grabbed his wrists and placed them on his chest, against his nipples, and then pulled John's head up for a bruising kiss, all clacking teeth and tongues.

John grinned against Sherlock's mouth, tracing circles around the buds of his nipples, light and brief, not enough contact to do anything more than frustrate, which, judging from the pained noises Sherlock was emitting, he was doing rather well. “Sensitive here, are we?” he asked, and circled closer, brushed his thumbs against the peaks, felt them pebble, listened to Sherlock's breath hitching. “Do you do this when you get yourself off, then? One hand on that gorgeous cock and the other up here, playing with your nipples? Do you suck on your fingers before you do it, stick them in your mouth and run your tongue all over them, before you bring them down to your chest?” Sherlock gasped, grabbed John's left hand, and rested the first two fingers against his bottom lip.

“ _Fuck_ , yes,” John murmured, as he pressed in, Sherlock's hot wet mouth opening invitingly for him, and then it was his turn to gasp as Sherlock ran his tongue first up one finger, down into the vee between the two, and then up again, before sucking roughly, cheeks hollowed, once, twice, and then pulling off with a filthy satisfying _pop._

“I'll take that as a yes,” John said, and resumed his circling, fingers sliding wetly against skin, bringing his other hand down to grip the curve of Sherlock's arse. “And what about here?” he asked as he squeezed, and felt Sherlock brace himself against the desk. “Tell me, love. Do you push those long pretty fingers up inside yourself, fuck yourself on them, pretend it's me? Do you -”

The noise Sherlock made was _broken_ , fractured and desperate, and when he whispered John's name, it sounded like a prayer. “ _John_. I – yes – all of it, yes. I do, I f-finger myself, and I wish it were you, I wish it were your fingers inside me, your,” Sherlock swallowed, “your cock, your mouth, your _mouth_ , please -”

John was already lowering his legs, hitching his hips off the desk, but he stopped and took Sherlock's face in his hands, holding his head steady, looking into his wide eyes, usually so sharp, gone hazy with lust and need. “Anything. But _fucking say it_ , Sherlock, ask me, I want to hear you, god, I want to hear you.”

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath then let it out all at once. “Suck me, John,” he growled, and John groaned low in his throat, a burst of lust flaring up so quickly he actually fucking felt dizzy. This was unreal. This was beyond everything, beyond hopes and fantasies, beyond wishing and wanting. This was – oh, fuck, was Sherlock pressing down on his shoulders, gentle pressure but with unmistakable intent. John was on his knees in an instant, floor cold through the thin cotton of his pyjama bottoms. “Please suck me.”

“Ah, there's a good lad,” John murmured, nuzzling his cheek against Sherlock's silk-clad erection and groaning when he felt it jump at the contact. He looked up through his eyelashes at Sherlock, arm muscles strained and neck taut above him, and smiled a little uncertainly. “I've never – this isn't anything I've actually done before, so if I'm crap, I'll. Um. We'll practice more, later?”

Sherlock let out a low, breathy chuckle. “I have complete faith in your abilities even as a – _oh –_ veritable virgin in this area.” He carded one hand through John's hair, let his fingers trail over the curve of an ear, cradled John's jaw. John shivered, clutching at Sherlock's hips, thumbs rubbing against the hollows and angles. Sherlock tilted John's head up, pressed his thumb against John's bottom lip. John flicked his tongue out, drawing the tip of Sherlock's thumb in, biting at it gently before taking it in entirely. He swirled his tongue around, listened to Sherlock sigh above him. After a moment, Sherlock pulled his thumb out, then pressed it back in again.

“God, that's so fucking dirty,” John gasped, fingers tangled in Sherlock's waistband, tugging impatiently as Sherlock fucked his mouth with his thumb. He tugged the fabric out and down, lifting it away from Sherlock's erection and letting it puddle on the floor at his knees. Sherlock rubbed his thumb over John's lips, wetting them, before drawing back.

“You like the idea of that, don't you? Of taking my virginity in this?” John trailed fingertips along the length of Sherlock's prick, stroking him lightly from root to tip. He hadn't been wrong – Sherlock was gorgeous, hard flesh a dusky pink against the paler planes of his stomach. He was leaking already, foreskin retracted and head slick-shiny. John rubbed a finger against his slit, smearing precome on the pad. He drew his hand to his mouth, darting his tongue out to taste, and looked up through his eyelashes at Sherlock when he heard the guttural noise above him.

Sherlock looked down at him like a man possessed. His eyes were blown black, all pupil, and his lower lip was ragged from being chewed on. As John watched, breathing hard, Sherlock ran his tongue over his lip, once, twice, soothing it, before taking it between his teeth again. John slowly licked the palm of his hand, never taking his eyes off Sherlock's, watching as Sherlock followed the path of his tongue. He grasped Sherlock's cock firmly, his own throbbing in response and need at Sherlock's resulting cry.

“Oh, god yes,” Sherlock breathed, thrusting into the circle of John's hand. “Yes, yes, yes. The thought – oh god, John – of being the one – I didn't know for sure but I hoped – to be the first cock in your mouth, the _only_ one, for that to belong to me and me alone, to – yes, right there, just like that, _John_ – have your tongue caress my prick and _know_ that no one else on the planet would ever feel the – the – you – _GOD_!” and for a moment John was sure he was dying because Sherlock's cock was in his mouth, because his lips were stretched tight around that gorgeous plummy head, because he was flicking his tongue against the slit and tasting salty bitter _Sherlock_ and hell, _fuck_ , if this was what just blowing Sherlock felt like he’d never survive anything else, he was going to die right now.

John sucked as best he could, head bobbing, feeling his jaw tense up quickly – god, is this what his girlfriends had felt? He should send thank-you cards, and fuck, so not the point – and then pulled off, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to the tip. He looked up again at Sherlock before tugging his own pyjama bottoms down and scooping his cock and balls out, letting them rest on the elastic waistband. Sherlock's eyes turned even darker, and when John let his other hand stray to his own erection, eyes fluttering shut as he palmed himself, he could _feel_ Sherlock's shudder, from his knees against John's shoulder to his cockhead against John's lips.

Then there were hands, strong hands on his shoulders, under his arms, dragging him back up, and John barely had a moment to feel the loss of Sherlock's prick when it was replaced with Sherlock's tongue, hot and insistent. “You,” Sherlock choked out, tugging John's pyjamas down the rest of the way, curling one hand behind John's head and the other tight against his bicep, “you, John Watson, are _mine_ ,” and John could only nod fervently. For a moment, neither of them moved, John's hands pressed flat against Sherlock's back and their foreheads, sweat-damp and feverish, pressed together. “Mine,” Sherlock repeated.

“Yours,” John agreed. “There was never – god, Sherlock, there was never any question,” and then, oh god, oh Christing fuck, Sherlock was moving again, angling his hips so that their cocks were aligned, rubbing against each other, the slip-slide of John's saliva just enough to smooth the way, and - “Sherlock, stop, please, I'm not going to last -”

Sherlock shook his head, gripped the desk behind John, and _thrust_ , and John saw stars. “I have waited too long, I have been going _mad_ , thinking about you and your hands and your lips and your chest and your arse and your cock and your balls,” John could feel the tension building, building, and he willed himself not to let go, _not yet_ , because this felt so _fucking good_ , but the filthy litany spilling from Sherlock's lips wasn't helping, or it was helping too much, “thinking about you fucking me over the arm of the sofa, on – _ungh_ – the kitchen table, in Lestrade's – ahhhh _–_ office, this will not be the last time, not if I have any say – you are mine, John Watson, mine, and I need you, I _need_ -”

“Yeah, yeah,” John murmured, raking his nails against Sherlock's side before dropping his hand down and encircling the both of them, pumping a sloppy rhythm. “Need you too, Sherlock, always, that's it, _fuck_ , wanna feel you come, please, come for me, Sherlock -”

Sherlock stilled, gasping, and John felt the warm wet spurt of his come between them, and that was it, that was all, he was done for. Letting out a low groan, he buried his face in the juncture between Sherlock's shoulder and neck and came and came and _came._

When he came back to full consciousness, when his vision cleared and he could breathe properly again, he found Sherlock slumped against him, breath puffing hot and humid against his hair. John felt wobbly, heavy-limbed and a bit cramped, but made no attempt to move. Instead he found himself trailing comforting fingers up and down Sherlock's spine, feeling each vertebrae as he rubbed. A boneless Sherlock was an exceptionally heavy Sherlock, and still, John couldn't find it in himself to care. Let his back hurt in the morning.

“That. I.” John stopped, considered. Nudged Sherlock's chin, looked up into eyes half-lidded, sleepy but smiling. Felt his own chest constrict tightly, felt happiness flooding every bit of him, tip to toes. Pressed a small kiss against the corner of Sherlock's lush, bruised mouth, smiled when he felt those lips move in response. There were more words to be said, he knew, and plenty of them. But for now, with his arms full of quiet, sated consulting detective and his heart full of – god, just full, _so very full_ – there was just -

“Bed?” John offered, tilting his head toward the stairs with a smile.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And then Came Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878816) by [Inactive Account (sassybleu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassybleu/pseuds/Inactive%20Account)




End file.
